


On The Feed

by gubby



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Guilt, Guilty Pleasures, Masturbation, Penis In Vagina Sex, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, din is watching you sleep a lil, slight somno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:28:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29599008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gubby/pseuds/gubby
Summary: Mando accidentally turns on the Razor Crest's old security cameras. One of which happens to be in your bunk.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 97





	On The Feed

The first time the Mandalorian had turned on the long-forgotten surveillance system on the Razor Crest, and had seen you asleep in your bunk, it had been a complete accident that was rectified quickly. The cameras were from a time before he’d had the carbonite freezer installed, and he’d had no choice but to keep live quarries in the ship. A wayward brush of his hand against the console had turned them on, and just as quickly turned them off. But not before he’d already burned the image of you through the monitor into his mind. While the whole thing was over quickly, it was not nearly as easily forgotten.

The second time, he had told himself that it was out of concern. The planet you’d just spent the last week on had an inhospitable climate to say the least, and you’d had your fair share of scrapes as well. So he turned on the feed to see if you were ok-- that you weren’t sniffling or coughing, or secretly nursing some injury you hadn’t wanted him to concern himself with. While that wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t the whole truth, either. To see you sound asleep was comforting, it stirred something deep within him that he couldn’t remember having ever felt before. 

The third time… was something he couldn’t explain without suffocating with guilt. He’d just come back from a long, difficult bounty hunt that kept him away from the crest for a few days. He’d missed you terribly, and had returned in the middle of the night, and unwilling to wake you. To disturb what little rest you got just because he had missed you seemed childish to him. So he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. Climbed up to the cockpit, locking the door behind him, sat in the pilot’s seat, and removed his helmet. He bit his glove and tugged it off, unbuckling his codpiece. He palmed the bulge in his pants gingerly, fuzzy imaginations of your hesitant touch at the fringes of his mind. 

He hissed as he released his erection to the cool, recycled air of the cockpit. He spat in his palm before wrapping a calloused hand around his cock, thumbing at the frenulum while he tried to pull scenarios from his memory. All he could come up with was you. Touches against his bare skin when you’d patched up an injury, the moaning you’d do as you stretched awake in the mornings, how peaceful you looked in those few moments he saw you before you woke up…

He remembers the camera feed. How, shameful as it had been, it had been so comforting to see you safe and sound. Looking so soft and pretty in your sleep clothes, curled in on yourself. The Mandalorian tries and fails to think with anything but the dick between his legs. The out-of-the-way switch is flicked once again. The rarely used technology took a few seconds to hum to life, an eternity considering Mando’s trained reflexes and the racing of his mind. But he chose not to go back. He couldn’t, not having come this far and being so close to satisfaction. He doesn’t think he’s done anything to deserve to see you in such a vulnerable state, but he’s too weak-minded to deny himself. 

You’d once told the bounty hunter that while space was cold, the  _ Razor Crest _ was colder. Being that he had always been in the layers of his flight suit, his armor, and his cape (not to mention that the cold had never bothered him), the Crest’s temperature controls favored lower temperatures. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with saving on energy to grant some small reprieve to the aging vessel. Nope. 

So there you lay, wrapped up in a quilt he’d gotten you in the market on some backwater planet. It was primarily dyed a warm peach color, a pigment extracted from a native insect. Perhaps it was some predilection from growing up in a Mandalorian covert, but Mando almost preferred that he  _ couldn’t  _ see much of you. Just the outline of your figure, where he could use his warm memories of you to color in the beautiful pieces of you that he cherished. 

He gripped his cock and began to stroke it slowly, thinking of how you’d touch him for the first time. Exploratory, almost hesitant. It wasn’t possible for him to fool himself completely, not with how large and calloused his hand was compared to yours, but every so often his imagination was vivid enough that he was able to dip into the dream. And when he did, the pleasure was something priceless.

In these fantasies, he was always without the helmet. The Mandalorian wouldn’t think of it in the moment, but after he came he would wonder why it was he chose to imagine things that way. Did he yearn for a freedom from the creed that gave him purpose? Or, perhaps worse, did he see you as the one he wanted to share his life with, until he went marching away? 

You shifted and moaned in your sleep, banishing some discomfort imperceptible to your traveling companion. He wondered if you dreamt at all, considering how inconsistent and uncomfortable your sleeping arrangements usually were. He hoped that you did dream, that there was an escape from the endlessness of space for you, if not for him. Selfishly, he hoped to be a part of those dreams. He wanted so badly to be the talisman against your nightmares.

He often imagined taking you in a flurry of mutual passion, on the Crest or away in some city, anywhere you would have him. He’d be rough, but you’d like it, and you’d be so, so  _ good _ for him. But tonight, he felt so miserably lovesick and starved that he couldn’t imagine fucking you in any way but the gentlest way he could manage. He’d trained his entire life in combat, those who’d found death by his hands were innumerable. And yet, he’d use all of the delicacy at his disposal to coax you open for him. He’d put his mouth on you, and use his tongue to spell out all of the words he’d been too afraid to say through the vocoder.

Through the haze of his fantasies, he saw you smile in your sleep on the feed. Just a sweet tug at your lips, and he felt ruin upon him. Mando breathed like a wild beast as he fisted his cock, brows furrowed, eyes glued to the screen. His orgasm hit him like a freight train, cum splashing against his breastplate as he closed his eyes and saw you behind the lids. He cleaned himself up after coming down from his high, but kept the cameras on for a little longer. He thought that maybe if he saw you like this before he went to sleep himself, he could pretend you were sleeping next to him. Maybe that comfort would let his mind finally rest. Maybe he could dream. 

The Mandalorian had promised himself he wouldn’t do it again. But like so many promises he made to himself regarding you, it wasn’t kept. 

You told him precious little about life from your planet of origin. Of course, it was because he hadn’t asked. Even though he wanted to know everything there was to know about you. You once told him that where you came from, people believed that no one should ever be alone. Much the same as Mandalorians, they were very communal, and interpersonal support was of great importance. But there was an expression you taught him that he’d never encountered in the galaxy. He had a hard time remembering the word, but he remembered the meaning:  _ to feel alone in one’s own body _ . 

The Mandalorian had been alone for much of his life. Traveling, keeping little companionship besides his covert, and he was convinced that things were best when he was alone. He remembered being confused by your expression, closer to when you’d first met. He mused that perhaps it was just a different way of expressing touch starvation, which he knew of intimately. 

He knew now that it was an entirely different feeling. You had wriggled into the gaps in his ribs, and taken little pieces of him every day. The breath from his lungs, the blood from his heart. And suddenly, when he had to be away from you, it didn’t feel right. 

Which brought him to another listless, sleepless night of him seeking his own pleasure in a desperate attempt to sate whatever beast had made home inside his body. The one that craved only you. 

When he turned on the cameras, he was met with your flushed face, eyebrows furrowed, as you moaned quietly and squirmed beneath your quilt. His first instinct was to ask himself what the hell could’ve been wrong with you? If you were sick or hurt, how could it have slipped by him? When did it—

Oh.

_ Oh _ .

You kicked the quilt off, revealing the hand buried in between your legs, your sleep shirt ridden up to the curve of your waist. The image of you curled around yourself made it painfully easy for him to imagine himself at your back, his hand replacing yours at the apex of your thighs. He felt sweat bead on his brow as he sat, paralyzed in the pilot’s chair; if what he’d been doing before was shameful, what he was doing now would have to be  _ unforgivable _ . As if of its own free will, his arm reached to that far side of the console, and turned up the audio dial.

Unforgivable, indeed.

Your moans were muffled intentionally, and he felt a pang of unjustified irritation when he noticed. If he were there, he wouldn’t tolerate you quieting yourself. Not after he’d waited this long to experience every possible facet of your ecstasy. Something he knew himself undeserving of, but was past the point of caring. He’d become impossibly hard, and was about to divest himself of his flightsuit, when he caught something barely picked up by the audio censors.

“ _ Mando-- _ ”

He was out of his chair and down the ladder before he even realized what he was doing. He paused just outside your bunk, unable to hear you through the steel door, but his reservations had long since been overridden by  _ need _ . Your door swished open, and he caught just the barest hint of movement before you were entirely still. You weren’t  _ deaf _ , and he hadn’t exactly moved silently in those few rushed moments. Your eyes nearly clenched closed, the quilt still misplaced, you pretended. But the Mandalorian had learned how to see through pretenders long ago.

Mando moved cautiously, carefully, as he slid himself into your cot just behind you. As if hoping to hide from a predator, you continued to lay still and try to breathe evenly. The Mandalorian rested a gloveless hand against your warm thigh, sliding it up slowly until he was able to slide a thumb beneath the elastic of your underwear, memorizing the feeling of your skin. 

“I know you’re not asleep,  _ sweet girl _ . I know what you were doing,” he whispered through the modulator. His hand ventured to your front, and stroked over the obvious wet patch on your panties. “You were calling for me, mesh’la. And here I am.”

For less than a moment, he felt like he came to his senses, and worried that he was wrong, somehow. That his love-starved mind had invented those images of you, and similarly fabricated your calling his name. That these were all unwanted advances that would destroy the relationship you had. 

“Mando,” you exhaled, moving to grind against his hand. He shuddered slightly, but felt a certain pang of disappointment at the name you used. 

“Din,” he said, “my name is Din, sweet girl.  _ Please _ use it,” he pleaded quietly against your neck.

“Din,” you called, pushing yourself against his front, and creating delicious friction against his hard cock through his flight suit. He used his free hand to hurriedly free himself, and you squeaked as his heavy cock landed against the small of your back, where your shirt had ridden up. You could feel the wet of his precum hot against your skin.

His once idle hand dove beneath your waistband, stroking his thick fingers along your slick. You could hear his pleased hum from under his helmet, too quiet for the vocoder to pick up.

“You’re so wet, cyar’ika, and so kriffing  _ soft _ … Better than I ever imagined.”

You tried to pretend that the thought of him  _ imagining _ this scenario didn’t completely undo you. The Mandalorian slowly slipped a finger in you, just teasingly up to the first knuckle, and you could feel him grind against your backside.

“Your pussy’s gripping my finger so tightly, I don’t know how I’ll fit. But I’m a patient man.”

Suddenly, you’re manhandled into a sitting position, between Din’s legs. His free hand slipped up your sleep shirt, groping a breast eagerly. He fingers you in earnest now, no longer feeling content in just exploring you. No, now he wanted to ruin you. Give you so much ecstasy that there wouldn’t be a doubt in your mind regarding how he felt about you.

He added another finger, stroking against your silken walls while his palm put delicious pressure against your clit. You choked out a pleasured cry, and he could feel his cock throb at the sound. You were already so worked up by the time he arrived, and all of the things he was saying were just so overwhelming, you were already close. The way your walls pulled at his fingers was mesmerizing to the Mandalorian as he drew you closer to orgasm. 

“Are you close, cyar’ika? K-keep making those noises— _ fuck _ , c-can you feel how hard I am for you? So  _ pretty _ ,” he cooed. “You’ll come for me, like a good girl, won’t you, cyare? C’mon, sweet girl, come, and then I’ll take you like you deserve.”

You whined, gasped, and  _ shuddered _ when the white hot pleasure hit you, sending jolts up your spine as you pushed yourself further against the Mandalorian’s hand. You grabbed his thighs to ground yourself as he continued to rock his fingers into you gently, helping you ride through your climax. 

“ _ Din _ ,” you huffed, dreamily, “thank you.”

“Save your thanks for when I’m finished with you. I  _ want  _ you, cyare. Will you let me take you?”

“ _ Please _ , Din. I wanna feel you.”

The simple, earnest desire—no,  _ yearning _ , in your voice fanned at the hellish flames in his belly. You  _ wanted _ him. Maybe as badly as he wanted you. His fingers withdrew from you, and he picked you up without fanfare, turning you to lay you on your back. He felt something in his heart break a little as he looked down at you through the filter of his helmet. First through the distortion of the camera feed, and now this. 

One day he would look you in the eyes as he fucked you, and it would be beautiful. 

The velvet head of his cock nudged at your clit while prodding at you, and Din smiled under his helmet at the sweet little noises it coaxed from you. He pushed into you, gently and incrementally, determined to make this moment last, as if this would never happen again. For all he knew, it might not. You might wake up tomorrow and condemn this all as a mistake, as a regret. But for this instant, he had you, and he would cherish you.

He choked out his groans as he felt the hug of your walls around him. He knew he wouldn’t have had this much trouble staving off his climax if he were with anyone but you. It was  _ you _ doing this to him, it was as if he could feel the thrum of your heartbeat through the silk of your cunt, and it utterly undid him to think of your heart beating as hard as his.

Din thrusted slowly, deeply, gentle yet punctuated. Words of affection, praise, and endearment fell from his mouth freely now, when usually coaxing conversation from him was akin to pulling teeth.

“Sweet girl, fuck--  _ My _ sweet girl… ngh, even if just for tonight.”

Your eyes widened momentarily, insecurity behind them as your brows furrowed. Your eyes drifted from his visor as you continued to quietly pant and mewl with his thrusts.

“I… I want to be yours after tonight, Din. Please?”

For a moment you wondered if you’d said the wrong thing. Ruined it all, broken whatever spell he’d been under, the one that seemed to make him so suddenly and miraculously interested in you the same way you were in him. Then, his thrusts turned punishing, and he shoved his hand between your bodies to knead at your clit with his thumb.

“ _ Fuck _ , cyare, you can’t just say things like that and expect m-me to last,” he gasped, wholly unprepared for such a confession.

Your cunt squeezed him, as if you’d had his heart in your hands, and you were unable to contain the longing look that made itself known on your face. He couldn’t take it. Din stilled as he came, streaking your insides in ropes of his hot cum, a deep growl leaving him as he shook with the intensity of it. 

He continued to thrust into you with his softening and oversensitive cock, stroking your clit with renewed vigor.

“Come on, mesh’la, I wanna feel you come on my cock, fucking  _ soak _ me--”

You keened, a broken cry leaving you, and Din felt your walls milk him so hard it almost  _ hurt _ with his sensitivity as you gushed around him. He finally collapsed on you, his weight resting heavy on you for a moment before he rolled over, pulling you along to rest on him. You both huffed quietly, the only sound aside from the unending hum of the systems of the crest, which you were suddenly able to perceive again.

“For as long as you’ll have me.” He said.

“What?”

“You… you said you wanted to be mine. After tonight,” he paused to collect his thoughts, a struggle as he still waded in post-orgasmic haze. “Be mine. And I’ll be yours. For as long as you’ll have me, cyare.”

You’re stunned into silence for a moment, before you hoist yourself up, looking down at him.

You lean your forehead against his helmet.

  
  



End file.
